Prodigal
by trufflemores
Summary: Post-6.06. Neal comes home.


_They were sitting in Peter's car, driving to Peter's home, and Neal was scarcely twelve hours out of prison when the syrupy, dreamlike thickness of their conversation coalesced into a single fevered question: "France, is she in France?"_

Revelation struck Peter like a thunderbolt.

He shot upright in bed, heart pounding. Walking the line between dream and reality, he could picture _France_ :

("Just _un moment_ ," he heard Neal say through the sleek hotel door.

"Cut the French crap, Neal," he hissed.)

Unbidden, an even more enduring memory leapt forth:

"If you had to go underground," Peter had asked Mozzie as they pursued Byron's old partner Ford into the heart of comrade-in-crime Ganz's counterfeiting scheme, "where would you go?"

"Somewhere I'd never been caught."

Mozzie had answered without hesitation.

The thrill of realization was so immediate Peter felt dizzy with it.

"What's wrong?" Elizabeth asked, sitting up beside him, radiating warmth and sleepy sanguinity.

Peter didn't pause to catch a breath. "I know where he ran," he replied.

Her hands, rubbing tension from his shoulders, ceased. There was only one person who haunted Peter's dreams and robbed his sleep after the case files were closed.

It was a credit to their twelve-year marriage that the only words to leave El's lips were not skeptical or harsh or even fond, but serious: "How do you know?"

Peter shook his head, picked up his phone, and said, "He always went after Kate. And before he knew she was still here he thought she was in France." Dialing rapidly, he added, "It _has_ to be." Then, sharp: "Mozzie."

A delirious reply: "I'll never surrender."

"I KNOW WHERE HE IS HIDING."

Peter did not yell, scarcely raised his voice, but the effect was immediate. Sleepiness vanished, replaced by suspicion. " _Suit?_ "

"Meet me at the airport in half an hour." He hung up. He didn't have time to explain or rationalize or listen to Mozzie's criticisms.

El rubbed his shoulders again, not saying anything. At last, she sighed and kissed his neck. "Please be safe."

For a moment, he allowed himself to indulge in her embrace. "I will, honey." Then he pushed himself off the bed, leaned over to kiss her once properly, and stepped back, saying as he tugged off his pajama top, "I think it's time to cash in on a few of those sick days for the Bureau."

* * *

Standing in an airport at four AM with Mozzie, Peter purchased tickets for Paris on his own dime.

"I hate flying," Mozzie told him without spite as they surrendered their hastily-thrown-together overnight bags to security, toeing off his shoes without so much as a second look to pass through the metal detector. He moved exactly like a law-abiding citizen would, and Peter was struck by how _normal_ Mozzie seemed, how undetectable he would be in a large crowd as one of the world's most accomplished criminals. He radiated nondescriptness. It was a gift, a talent, a _usefulness_ Peter couldn't help but admire.

And emulate, as he submitted to the same jurisdiction, gratefully passing through the final hoops before boarding. He had nothing to hide but plenty to fear: any delay that would keep him from finding Neal at this point was a road bump his sanity could scarcely bear. He moved as if in a dream, with brisk certitude that it would all end but needing to accomplish his goals before the curtains came tumbling down.

He had to find Neal. No matter what state he was in, no matter what crimes he had committed, he had to find him.

Peter called Jones and updated him on only the most pertinent details (leaving out Neal's name and his real reason for pursuing a French lead), called the Bureau to formally file the report, and at last called Elizabeth to let her know that they would be arriving in approximately twenty-three hours.

Once that was done, he bought a book of crosswords and waited to board, all but dozing in his seat in the intervening thirty minutes.

"I hate flying," Mozzie repeated at last, seated beside him on the plane, his face several shades paler than usual, one hand tapping the arm rest rhythmically as the flight attendant relayed safety instructions.

"Mortality rates for planes are less than 0.1%," Peter reminded him, pulling out his crossword puzzles and flipping to the first page, pen in hand.

"That doesn't comfort me."

"Cowboy up," Peter replied.

To his credit, Mozzie set his jaw, picked up a shiny copy of _A Beginner's Guide to French,_ and didn't say a word for the rest of the flight.

Peter, altogether distracted, had to admit he was impressed. Rarely had his advice been heeded so thoroughly.

* * *

The first thing Peter did on Parisian soil was buy a cup of coffee.

Upon the first memorable sip, he concluded every beverage tempered on French soil was literally divine.

Scrolling his luggage behind him, he savored every drop on their slumbering march to the nearest available hotel. It wasn't easy, and in a more conscious state his eyebrows might have shot through the ceiling at the cost, but the lure of a bed and the spend money sitting cozily in his bank account were too irresistibly intertwined to spare one for the sake of the other. His pocket would forgive him someday.

Still, the last remnants of his drink still coursing through his system, he felt a sense of rightness about their purpose. He scarcely spoke a lick of French, but Mozzie filled in the gaps, politely explaining that his American friend was extremely unlearned and perhaps a bit backwards in the head but a reasonable person, nonetheless. Or something to that flavor. Judging by their receptionist's agreeability, Peter gathered any excuse for his incompetence was sufficiently justifiable.

Once they were safely ensconced in their room and a handful of perfunctory calls (at similarly exorbitant but forgettable prices) had been made back home, Peter toed off his shoes, shrugged out of dress shirt and pants, struggled into a set of lounge wear doubling as pajamas, and collapsed face-first onto the nearest bed.

Even the elixir of life could not have stirred him from the catatonia he promptly slumped into the moment his face hit the pillow.

* * *

Upon regaining consciousness and attempting to procure a second coffee, Peter resorted to fumbling with cash when his card was declined. Already feeling headachy and unpleased at the imminent battle, he slipped into a cushy chair in the café, picked up his card, and spent nearly two hours haranguing his credit card company to lift a hold that had been placed due to unexplained purchases in Paris.

Jones interrupted the call midway through – he declined twice, waiting interminably long on hold instead, teeth grinding impatiently as he steamed over his drink. Once the company assured that his account was accessible, Peter hung up and redialed the office, waiting a scant six seconds before Jones' reassuring timbre greeted him: "Hey, boss. I was starting to worry you'd gone underground."

He opened his mouth to reply, intending to ask what the call had been about, when a familiar silhouette caught his attention.

And then, ringing, crisp, ecstatic with the hints of a French accent: " _Moz!_ "

His mouth ran so dry it physically ached to speak as he told Jones, "I'll call you back," and hung up.

Making an admirably restrained but unmistakably emotional reunion in the hotel lobby were two of FBI's most wanted criminals, hugging tightly as Mozzie sobbed unabashedly into Neal's shoulder.

"Easy, Moz," Neal chided him lightly, rubbing a big, familiar hand up and down his back. "Don't make a scene, remember?"

Peter stood up from his chair, afraid his legs might be taken out from under him in pure shock, and the movement attracted Neal's attention, blue eyes electric in the midmorning light. He looked as tangible and hardy as ever, but there was a suppleness to his step, a warmth to his smile Peter couldn't remember seeing, as he crossed the distance between them in ten great steps and hauled him into a hug.

It was like his son had come home, come back from a war, emerged from a grave unattended by the spectre of death but more alive than before in the full wash of sunshine pouring into the room, the space, the realm of the living.

All thoughts of cordiality and modesty slipped his mind as he hugged Neal, hugged him until he wrung tears from him, until it was impossible to tell whose legs were supporting them and the world around them became an unimportant deadline to be attended at their leisure.

All that mattered was the tangible, the visceral, the real presence of Neal in his arms. Peter couldn't have let go if he caught fire.

The first thing he noticed when the cloud of emotion ceased to blind all his senses was the way Neal filled his arms: pleasingly heavier than he'd been in the States, like he'd finally allowed himself to indulge in an existence one could define as healthier than eked, scraped along the edges of stale coffee and sleepless nights. His arms were strong, his legs powerful, and Peter gathered that he'd tuned more than his body while invisible to the public, his embrace warm and hearty were it had been cautious and desperate back home.

Peter thought, irrationally, that it was a shame El wasn't there to see him, to hug him for the first time again in over a year, because she would have loved to see a Caffrey who wasn't withering away, who was _thriving_ in his realm.

They must have struck a peculiar scene to the ordinary clientele, locked in an interminable embrace which ended, by Peter's best, militarized count, in a scarce matter of minutes, accompanied by a great insistence on buying another round of coffee for them.

Mozzie didn't let him get far out of his own personal radius, lingering scarcely a step away as they approached the counter and Neal effortlessly rattled off three different coffees Peter might have asphyxiated over before correctly butchering. The result – at least from Peter's perspective – was hot and delicious, like blood in the veins, making the vertigo of the encounter settle pleasingly in his stomach, solidifying his evaporating hold on reality.

He couldn't stop touching Neal, attempting to reassure himself that he was real and it wasn't a dream as so many other encounters of their sort had been over the past twelve months. He placed a hand over his wrist and squeezed, feeling solid muscle and sinew and flesh where skin and bones dwelled limply before. Everything about Neal seemed borderline superhumanly infused with vitality, the absence of his presence so keen that the reintroduction to Peter was almost too good to believe.

But he was real and already chatting with Mozzie, answering questions with his usual twist of the aloof. How did he do it? Careful planning. Why France? Neal never fled outside the country without a purpose, and there was nothing in France of particular interest at the time. It was a good place to settle down without surrendering entirely to the obscure, and the coffee was, as Peter had already noticed, heavenly. How did he know Keller would shoot him? Because it was Keller.

A gentling force seemed to detract from the feverish energy of the initial recapitulation. There was only so much verve which could be imbued in a conversation before coffee and topics began to run low. At that point, Mozzie posed the hardest question of all in the quietest tone: "So why not come back?"

At that, Neal had no easy answer.

"I was tempted to," he admitted, once enough time had passed for Peter's racing thoughts to still to a silence, waiting expectantly. He rubbed his knuckles compulsively, seeking answers from the flesh, or perhaps fleshless, imploring divine intervention to spare a conventional response. When none seemed forthcoming, he continued. "I needed time. It was never my intention to take it this far, but then I woke up and realized no one in the world knew I was alive. It's hard to describe how that changes you." Then, rephrasing, he extinguished the idea and amended, "It makes you feel more alive. And more careful. You lose everything to gain everything, in a sense. I had to give up New York to get my life back, or else I would be tied down to that corpse in that grave marked with my name."

"Not even a hint?" Peter asked, unable to help himself.

Neal affixed burning blue eyes on him and smiled ruefully. "I needed time. And after six months I needed space. Returning to the Bureau felt like returning to a dead man's life. Here I was free."

And it hit Peter, abruptly, as if the orderly had just handed him the bag containing Neal's final belongings, including the anklet, like a dog collar, something precious and humbling to hold in your hands and realize an entire life depended utterly on you and trusted you to make it worthwhile, even if you could never make it as good as they truly deserved, and he remembered those words: _You're free._

"Why did you come here?" he asked, picking his words carefully. He knew it was somewhat irrational – he couldn't claim any ownership of Neal anymore, no relationship whatsoever, truthfully – but he was afraid of pushing too far, driving Neal back into secrecy. He couldn't lose him a second time.

Neal shrugged, like he couldn't quite explain it himself. Then, accepting the meaning behind his actions, he replied, "Because I couldn't let our lives go on forever without knowing what had happened. What I left behind."

 _You left behind a lot of unfinished cases,_ Peter thought, _and a lot of uncuffed criminals. Dozens of people who lost something in the meaningless of callous crime, collateral damage. Livelihoods stripped, possessions stolen, identities warped. You left behind the New York White Collar Crime Division, the Bureau, Satchmo and Elizabeth. You left behind June and Mozzie. You left behind your penthouse and ten-million dollar view, your daily commute through the streets of New York, your ability to chase down fellow criminals and bring a little more order to this world._

 _You left everything behind._

"You left us behind," Peter said at last, encapsulating the entire diaspora of grief.

Neal let a mirthless smile touch his lips. "I found out who I was, Peter," he said, and there was a gravity to it that halted the protests that wanted to spring forth from Peter's consciousness, a delayed anger silenced by the intensity of Neal's gaze. "I found out what I had to offer and what I had to lose and what I had to be in order to live." Leaning closer, he finished in a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm a criminal, and I like to do bad things, and I'm not ashamed of that. But no final score could ever replace that I had a life back there and choices and opportunities I no longer have here."

Leaning back, he ran a hand through his hair, looking for a moment almost as unraveled as Peter felt in the storm of emotions sweeping over him. "The first rule of a successful long-term con," he said, "is not to get attached. When I met you," a nod at Mozzie, accepted with the solemnest dues, "I jeopardized that, and I should have known I would never be able to leave it all behind. But then Kate died –" time had dulled the ache; the once prominent ring of pain had vanished, leaving only a subtler echo of it behind – "and I thought I'd still be able to." Then, reaching over to snag Peter's coffee effortlessly, he took an assessing sip and finished simply, "And then you happened."

Setting the coffee down, he stared at Peter, at a lifetime at the Bureau, stakeouts and crimes, case files and cons, deceit and triumph, and Peter knew why the plan had failed.

Healing had made him heartier, but separation had made his solitude keener, his world slowly becoming smaller and smaller, his influence dwindling into the realm of inconsequentiality.

And if there was one thing Neal wasn't, it was inconsequential.

He needed to be someone, too, even if that someone wasn't pure or perfect or wholly good, but _someone,_ tangible, real, someone to come home to, to be friends with, to go out for beers or a coffee with, someone who had a reputation and a profession of questionable tastes but a damn talent for its execution and an incontrovertible ability to somehow make the world a better place.

Neal was a good person, but Neal-the-Ghost was no one, Neal-the-Ghost was a body in a city of millions in a country of foreigners who had no idea who he was or had been or could be.

They didn't know what Neal Caffrey was capable of, and beneath pride and hubris, Peter could see genuine grief at the loneliness of the idea, of a true death some day in literal obscurity.

Neal Caffrey was a dead man, with a headstone and a grave. But whoever Neal-the-Ghost chose to become would be a dead man in his own way, with a past that didn't exist.

The need for solidarity, for _realness,_ was too great to overcome in a beautiful land full of people who had no idea he existed.

So it was that, without preamble, without a single hitch of hesitation, Mozzie interjected calmly, "There's this – horrible tenant living with June right now."

A flicker of unexpected delight creeped into Neal's expression as he arched an eyebrow. "She rented out the penthouse?"

"Mmmhm." Elaborating, Mozzie added, "She's this _cat burglar_ who can't stand fine wines or enlightening conversation."

"Sounds like a monster," Neal rejoined agreeably, leaning forward, fully engaged. "Have you tried talking to her?"

"Of course," Mozzie agreed. "But you know I've never really been a people person."

"That was my specialty," Neal mused, affectionate, sorrowful.

" _Is,_ " Mozzie corrected pointedly.

Neal didn't say a word, pushing back his chair, prompting Peter and Mozzie to do the same.

"How long are you in town?" he asked.

 _As long as it takes._ "The Bureau can spare me for a few days," Peter replied evasively.

Mozzie shrugged eloquently, indicating the obscurity of his return date. Clearly, neither of them were leaving empty-handed.

Neal surveyed them critically for several moments, picked up his hat, tossed it on his head, and said, "Let me show you around." Then, with only the slightest hesitation, he added, "I have a few things I need to take care of, anyway."

Peter didn't inquire about the implied departure, scarcely let it cross his mind as he nodded and let himself become a part of Neal-the-Ghost's life.

* * *

There was a lot to love about Paris.

Peter found himself embracing the lifestyle readily, even if not knowing any of the native language was sufficiently jarring to keep him from sinking into complacency. He was always on his toes, grateful that Neal and Mozzie were capable of holding their own, Neal's accent so exquisite he didn't even merit the usual scarcely disguised disappointment at non-natives attempting to incorporate the language. It flowed out of him, as though he was born to charm people, which, Peter realized, watching him charm a loaf of bread from a willing patron, he had to be.

They toured the city and visited the art museums, an experience Peter found far more riveting than he ever had before. He couldn't tell if it was the atmosphere – everything seemed more intriguing in a foreign country, particularly one as beautiful as France – or the company, but listening to Neal's willing commentary about the pieces, quick and sharp, never to the point of overbearing but effusive, nonetheless, Peter found himself awestruck.

It was an awesome place. With the right supply of funds and the right needs (solitude, secrecy) it was perfect.

But Peter didn't need the cool comforts of autumnal charms as the sun began to set. He craved his own bed, with his beautiful wife and his perfect son, and his heart ached as they arrived, at last, at Neal's place.

He was vividly reminded of the burial as they walked up the tiny staircase, old memories of grief and profound loss resurfacing as he waited to see Neal Caffrey's place.

When the door opened, he was struck by how it was a comfortable flat, small compared to June's penthouse but spacious for anyone living close to a big city. Yet everything about it reeked of Neal's death: Neal-the-Ghost had few possessions, tidily organized but wanting for more, gaping holes in his life where shelves of books he had yet to read and stacks of wine bottles he had yet to taste were missing. The space lacked the vibrancy of the New York city skyline, ablaze with a million lights at night, alight like star-space even when all daytime functions ceased.

Here, the darkness crept in quietly but inexorably, compelling lights to be turned on, again revealing the way that Neal Caffrey had scarcely visited this place, a person bearing everything but his past instead stepping in. There was no questionable evidence lying around, no schemes brewing just under the floorboards. All was insuperably clean, organized, and orderly: a model citizen's home.

It didn't feel like Neal's home, and standing in it with him Peter was struck by how carefully Neal moved, as though attempting to reconcile a present by ignoring the past that reached out, imploring him to recognize its charms. When he offered them a bottle of wine, Peter thought it might have been perfect if there was the tiniest creak of sound below, evidencing June's presence. Without it, it felt tomblike.

They drank to health and heartiness, and there was no small amount of irony in the smile Neal awarded Peter as he held up his glass and drank.

There was a sense of timelessness, embedded in the innate exhaustion of long-flight travel to foreign worlds, that kept the evening tireless. They talked until the bottle was gone and scrounged together a game of Scrabble that had Neal in stitches. It was rewarding to be near him, rewarding to hear his laugh, to see his smile, and Peter found himself forgiving crimes, for lost eras, for countless hours in morning, for the opportunity to be there.

They talked until their voices were shot, lingered in each other's docile company until it was easier to sit and not rise again, found comfort in thick blankets and soft pillows scattered around the apartment. Peter didn't know when sleep arrived, but it entombed him gently, slipping close over him, a warm, embracive cocoon.

* * *

When Peter awoke, pancakes were heavy in the air, his phone had three missed calls, and his neck ached.

Still, he smiled over coffee, ate three pancakes with scarcely a pause for breath between them, and successfully placated the Bureau and his closer comrades – Diana, Jones, even Hughes, pending inquiry, wondered where Burke was during one of the bigger raids in months – before dialing his wife.

"Hey, hon," he greeted, languorous, placid, as he sipped coffee on Neal-the-Ghost's couch, feeling a certain liveliness he hadn't felt in centuries. "How are you?"

"Really good," El replied, a soft babbling in the background making Peter's heart warm. "Missing you. How's France?"

"Oh. Amazing." Then, without further adieu, he announced, "We found Neal."

Neal flipped a pancake and belted teasingly, " _Love is a many-splendored thing_ ," earning a groan from a still partially-catatonic Mozzie on the floor and a laugh from El on the phone. It quickly dissolved into hiccupping sobs, a sort of breathless relief audible from a thousand miles away that Peter placated with his own watery laughs.

"Hon, I can't wait to show him to you," he said, and looking over at Neal, emboldened at the possibility, he made an eloquent gesture at the phone.

Neal swept in without further provocation, took the phone, and greeted, "Hi, Elizabeth." It was like watching a performance, as he eased seamlessly back into his roll with the line of pancakes, chatting easily on the phone and allowing lengthy pauses punctuated only with monosyllabic replies, agreement on every lilt. He was charming, Peter knew, but there was something deeper and lovelier at work, compassion, affection, even joy.

Watching Neal talk to her, seeing his face light up, Peter knew – before a fresh stack of unnecessarily glorious pancakes was proffered to him, before a casual conversation distilled into serious contemplation and eventual agreement – that Neal would come home.

The thought made his chest ache with such relief he almost missed Neal passing him the phone back, roused from his stupor by a simple, "I love you, and I miss you, and I swear to God you better bring him home."

"I promise," he said, and meant it, with every fiber of his being. "I will, El. I love you so much. I'll talk to you again soon. Bye, hon."

* * *

They courted him for a week.

Peter didn't know exactly what role they played, each of them judging each other's reactions keenly, careful not to overstep, but the longer they lingered the more comfortable they became. It was less like terror every time Peter let Neal out of his sight and more like complicity in a grand scheme to stay in each other's lives; he trusted Neal, Neal trusted him, and somehow that was good enough. Mozzie, too, seemed to settle into his familiar routine at Neal's side almost effortlessly, offering pleasingly obscure references to flavor conversations. It wasn't home, and Peter missed the Bureau and the daily grind, but he liked it, liked it enough to stay, to not race home, to give Neal every chance to do it voluntarily.

He wouldn't force him. But he wouldn't keep quiet, either, and they wouldn't let Neal disappear again.

But if he came _home._

The notion was too sweet for carelessness. Peter bided his time, let himself become familiar with the man Neal had become, the man Neal always was, the man Neal could be without an anklet. The man who solved crimes for a living and committed them as a hobby, who served the same institution that had duly robbed him of four years of his life, the company that had failed to protect those he loved against forces he fought with them to suppress.

He was a man of duality, easy to mistrust, far harder to hate, and Peter found that he could live with Neal's inherent ironies knowing that at heart Neal was _good._

And Neal saw it, too, reflected in their willingness to stay, their desire to _find him_ after so long apart; they knew who he was and they loved him for it, and that was what brought him home again.

It humbled Peter to see how few personal belongings Neal needed to finalize the decision.

When at last they stood on the threshold of the city, everything before them, and the world at their back, Peter wondered if he would run and flee the cosmopolitan, the ritual, the routine.

Instead, Neal turned and, with only a slight smile in Peter's direction, led the way into the airport.

* * *

Neal Caffrey reentered the country at 11:57 PM, local time, in New York City.

* * *

Exhausted though they all were, the first stop they made was Peter's house.

Waking El up after midnight was worth it to see the look on her face when Neal appeared in the doorway. " _Neal!_ " She launched herself at him, laughing as she hugged him, swearing at him and crying on his shoulder and holding on, like he'd vanish if she let go.

Peter snuck a hug and a kiss in for El, hauling his luggage up the stairs while Mozzie and Neal and El reacquainted themselves. When he returned she dragged him in for a hard hug, kissing him and saying, "Oh my God, Peter," over and over, grabbing Neal for a second hug while Mozzie reacquainted himself with their wine.

Satchmo, muzzle lighted with age, padded heavily into their midst, tail wagging slowly behind him as he sat on Neal's feet. Neal crouched and took his head in both hands, shaking it gently back and forth as he kissed the dog's muzzle and laughed when Satchmo licked him back. "I missed you, you magnificent beast," he murmured, rubbing the dog down affectionately, Satchmo's leg thumping energetically in approval.

"He's earned the right to a few extra pounds," Peter elucidated, indicating the formidable tum Satchmo had acquired, not obscene but apropos, fit for a king.

Neal didn't seem at all bothered, rubbing the lab's belly when he finally lowered himself on humble joints to the floor, tail thumping all the while.

"Did you come home for the dog?" Mozzie asked, helping himself to a generous helping of wine, seeming happier than he had in – forever, Peter thought, smiling to himself.

"Of course," Neal said, making a point of kissing Satchmo's head once loudly before standing up again and beaming at them.

"I can't believe you're back," El said, honestly, and Peter couldn't help but echo the sentiment, realizing that after countless torturous weeks the miracle had manifested, the prayer had been answered.

Neal had been given back to them.

It wasn't smiting and lightning, it didn't explain why a renowned mobster had a fondness for dogs ( _pugs_ , honestly), and it still didn't satisfy Peter's argument against oranges and locked doors, but it was its own little miracle, and Peter cherished it for what it was worth.

Neal Caffrey was home at last.

* * *

The news spread quickly.

Before two AM arrived, Diana and Jones and half the office had piled into the Burkes' home, imposing themselves on willing hospitality as they demanded to hear if the rumors were true – if _Neal Caffrey_ was alive.

It was late for everyone except Peter and Mozzie and Neal, who had scarcely adjusted to the whiplash of returning to the States enough to notice the time differences, conversing with everyone. (Mozzie discreetly removing himself from the hub to peruse the periphery, accompanied by El to prevent any traces of kleptomania from reasserting themselves).

It took hours, and by the time the sun rose in one country and began its lazy saunter towards oblivion in another, Neal-the-Ghost vanished and Neal Caffrey took his place in the world again.

* * *

Peter had trouble letting Neal out of his sight.

Even when everyone else departed and El disappeared to take care of _their_ Neal, Peter struggled to bring himself to let Neal go home.

He delayed the process by escorting him there, not out of a need to curb his more immutable and nefarious habits, but simply to keep the fire kindled between them, a conscious reminder of what they stood to lose, should their companionship break off. It was nice, talking with Neal, even when it seemed all conversational topics were surely exhausted. And even when the physical exhaustion sank its teeth into him, Peter felt a profound relief in Neal's presence that overcame it.

Arriving on June's doorstep was an exhilarating affair, and there were more tears and hugs exchanged, and if Peter thought the process would be exhausting in theory it was the opposite in practice. It vitalized Neal in a way that anonymity never could, recognized and accepted and _loved_ for what he had done and who he was, welcomed in totality in someone else's life. He could tell that it wasn't entirely expected – that, even if Neal had chosen to come back under certain preconceptions, no one could predict how those he had left would respond to his return – but neither Peter nor he need have been worried.

Any resentment or grief or rage at his abrupt disappearance from the world was cured by his return.

It was a tonic without scruple, a cure without a catch.

Bring back the dead, and the grieving will rejoice.

* * *

The long flight of stairs was a kindness. It let Peter absorb the reality slowly, Neal's heavy movements occluded by the relief radiating off him in waves. Mozzie waved them off, preferring to mingle with June downstairs.

"Any regrets?" he asked, a gruff emotionality to his own voice he didn't think possible after the last few days.

Neal laughed, an honest, innocent sound.

He pushed the door open to his penthouse first and Alex scarcely let him make a surprised sound before engulfing him in a hug.

"None whatsoever," he told Peter breezily, hugging Alex, her warm, heavy presence easy in his life, like a lifeline, or a buoy. An attachment to another world, embracing who he was in a new one, was a welcome consideration in Peter's books.

* * *

There would be time, later, for formalities. For awkwardness. For true regrets. For grief.

But as Peter stood on the threshold of Neal Caffrey's life again, he thought, _This is exactly how it should be._

And he hugged him one last time and said, "I missed you, you son of a bitch."

Neal hugged him back and said, "Missed you too, Peter."

He didn't know exactly what would happen to them. He couldn't predict the possible fallout.

But he was willing to do anything to keep this, to keep _Neal_ in his life.

And all he could think the long road home was _Neal's home, Neal's home, Neal's home._


End file.
